


We'll Walk Right Up To the Sun Hand In Hand

by ChemFishee



Series: and if you don't know now you know [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 2010 Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:58:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemFishee/pseuds/ChemFishee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stands on the dining room side of the counter. He takes a bite from the apple, a faint spray of juice catching in two days' worth of stubble, and turns the book to face him. There are already Post-Its - pink, blue and yellow - peaking out from some of the pages.<br/>(April 2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Walk Right Up To the Sun Hand In Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Nas' "If I Ruled the World (imagine that)."
> 
> (Comment!Fic originally posted [here](http://pjvilar.livejournal.com/19016.html?thread=273992#t273992).)

There's a baby name book sitting on the kitchen counter, next to the bowl filled with apples and bananas. Brad drops his keys and phone beside the bowl. He grabs a Red Delicious, peels the sticker off and polishes the skin on the hem of his shirt.  
  
He stands on the dining room side of the counter. He takes a bite from the apple, a faint spray of juice catching in two days' worth of stubble, and turns the book to face him. There are already Post-Its - pink, blue and yellow - peaking out from some of the pages.  
  
Brad sets the apple down and flips to the first note. It's pink. Nate's looping scrawl pours across the note at a slight rightward slant. _How many girls our age do we know named Amy? A lot. Possibly take offense to this._ Brad smirks at the note. Amy Brown was Nate's date to his senior prom. Amy Daniels was the head cheerleader who gave Brad his first blowjob the summer before he was sent to military school. It _was_ a popular name in the 70's.  
  
A yellow Post-It marks Taylor. There's a blue one by Jacob ( _too much like that Twilight crap Abby reads_ ), another yellow by Addison, a pink by Samantha ( _shortened to Sam?_ ) and another blue by James. Brad snags a pen out of the cup they keep on the counter and writes _Interrogative: Have we forgotten about Trombley?_ on that note.  
  
The back door opens. Brad hears the shuffle of running shoes being kicked off and then lined up along the wall. Nate rounds the corner into the kitchen, tinny rap music pouring out of the earbuds caught in the collar of his shirt. He's mouthing the words to some song, possibly not even the one he had been listening to. Brad merely raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Hey. You're home early." Nate's thumb slides across the screen of his iPod, and the music stops. Brad flips to the next Post-It, a yellow one.  
  
Brad _hmmm_ s in response.  
  
"I don't have dinner started yet. Wanna fire up the grill while I grab a quick shower? I'm thinking steak..."  
  
"How about El Fuego instead? Can sit on the patio." Brad looks up then, a smirk playing along the corner of his lips. "Have a margarita and some enchiladas."  
  
"You just want me drunk."  
  
Brad actually scoffs at that. "If that were the case, I would say we should just stay here and I'd call Ray for some whiskey tango inbred facsimile of a rum-based drink." Nate shifts his weight and eyes Brad. Brad raises his hands in surrender. "Honest."  
  
Nate rolls a shrug. "Fine. Give me five."  
  
Brad nods and turns to the next note. _Anderson_. He snorts and adds another annotation below Nate's.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

It doesn't come out of the blue. Nate has watched Brad play with nieces and nephews - letting them climb him like a tree, bouncing them on the trampoline, tucking them into his shoulder and rubbing their backs - for years. And, in turn, Brad has seen him grow into Uncle Nate.  
  
Really, it's a natural progression. Brad is good with kids, even if he does have to actively censor his distaste for _Yo Gabba Gabba_ and be restrained from adding bourbon to bottles and sippy cups of crying kids. Nate is learning to relax, though he is definitely still the nervous worrier between the two of them. He's at least learned to just not look at whatever the kids are doing on the trampoline or the swing set. Ignorance really is bliss.  
  
Brad's nephew (Tommy) is just over two years old and his niece (Sarah) four when Rachel finally lets the kids stay with them overnight. There's a double bed in the spare room for them to share. Brad even rigs up bed rails just in case.  
  
Tommy falls asleep on the couch. Nate waits until the credits are rolling on _Monsters Inc._ before he carefully scoops the boy up to carry him upstairs. On the landing, he can hear Brad speaking softly, the cadence of his speech slowed to that of someone reading a story aloud for the first time.  
  
Nate stops in the doorway. Brad is propped against the headboard, his right hand brushing over Sarah's hair and his left holding a copy of _Amelia Bedelia Goes Camping_. Sarah is laying on his chest and fighting to keep her eyes open. Brad turns the page. "'All right.' She picked up a stick. And Amelia Bedelia hit the road."  
  
"Uncle Brad?"  
  
"Yeah, Sarah."  
  
"Can we go camping tomorrow? Can we?"  
  
Brad chuckles. "Your mom is picking you up tomorrow after dinner. And it's not really camping unless you sleep outside, right?"  
  
"Can we do it next time?"  
  
"I'll ask your mom."  
  
Tommy shifts in his sleep and turns his head to snuffle into the collar of Nate's shirt.  
  
"Can we build a fire and make s'mores?"  
  
Nate opens his mouth to break the little girl's heart, but Brad is still too fast for him. "I think Uncle Nate would have a heart attack if we did that. And then _I'd_ never hear the end of it."  
  
"What's a heart attack mean?"  
  
"It means we'll have to ask him really nicely to get the marshmallows and some Hershey bars the next time he's at the grocery store. Think you can do that?"  
  
Sarah nods, her eyes drifting shut. Brad closes the book and carefully slides out from under her. He tucks the sheet around her shoulders and presses a kiss to her forehead. He takes Tommy from Nate's arms and repeats the ritual, letting Nate quietly pull up the bed rails.  
  
They turn off the bedside lamps. There's a nightlight plugged in by the doorway.

 

 

-

 

 

 

Brad spits another mouthful of toothpaste into the sink. Nate crowds into his space, squeezing fresh toothpaste onto his own brush. Brad spits again, runs water and taps his brush on the rim.  
  
Their eyes meet in the mirror.  
  
"What?" Brad asks. He dries his hands on the hand towel.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You've got a look. What's on your mind, Nate?"  
  
Nate spits, always with his teeth. "Nothing." Brad quirks an eyebrow. "It's just... It's nice having kids in the house. You know?"  
  
Brad nods. "Yeah." Brad turns, leaning on the counter.  
  
Nate spits again. "You ever think about what kind of parents we'd make?"  
  
Brad's smile curls slowly. "You'd totally be the hard-ass enforcer. I bet you'd make them do their homework at the kitchen table and get it all done before they even _thought_ about going outside to play."  
  
Nate washed his brush and tapped it twice on the rim. "And you'd feed them pizza rolls and chocolate cake for breakfast. And they'd love it when you dropped them off at school because you'd take them on the bike just to make them seem so cool."  
  
Brad actually snorts. "And you'd be the one telling them to stay away from the boys on motorcycles when they turned thirteen."  
  
"Wouldn't want them following in their dad's footsteps." Nate slides along the counter, bumping his hip against Brad's. "And you'll greet all of the boyfriends by waving around your sidearm."  
  
Nate nuzzles the paper-thin skin under Brad's hear. "Yeah, I've thought about it."  
  
Brad turns his head and brushes a kiss along Nate's cheekbone. "Me too," he murmurs.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 


End file.
